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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23486020">The encounter</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstamazon/pseuds/firstamazon'>firstamazon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works &amp; Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Beleriand, Canon Rewrite, Doriath, Ethereal Elves, First Age, Gen, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:42:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,666</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23486020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstamazon/pseuds/firstamazon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He made his way unthinkingly deep into the forest, following his ears and his eyes, toward that which lured him madly. The nightingale sang more limpidly as he approached the focus of light.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The encounter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I first wrote this in my mother tongue back in 2005, and it was the first piece of fiction I ever managed to finish, so it has a special place in my heart. Unfortunately, the translation is not as lyrical (or as good) as the original, so forgive my mistakes!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">It was night. The moon shone white and bright. Its sheen glow illuminated the forests and open spaces timidly, while the dark places hid from her pale face. He stopped and tiredly dropped his things on the floor. He had given up hunting the animal he had searched for so long; he wouldn’t find it under the moonlight. He sat a little apart from the road, leaning against the roots of a great pine tree. The stars, veiled until now by darkness, came out and shimmered, playing in the reflection of his gray eyes.</p><p class="western">He drew out the pipe he had in the little satchel and lit it up. He felt uncomfortable and strangely intimidated. He closed his eyes, trying to relax, distract himself, waiting for the sleep to come and close his eyelids till morn. The sudden freshness of night whispered among the trees and wavered the long strands of his dark hair slightly. A sweet smell of wildflowers reached his senses, and numb by the silence of the forest, he fell asleep. His thoughts flew ahead of him: rested on groves and prairies in faraway lands, of green land and bough, of white-peaked mountains and, beyond, the Great Sea. He had never seen it but missed it nonetheless.</p><p class="western">In his dreams, the sound of the waves breaking on the rocks oft came to his ears. He could feel the texture of white, soft sand beneath his feet, and see the landscape of a vast and beautiful beach, extending to the horizon and beyond. When he woke, He missed the visions that haunted him night after night, and a yearning for the sea slumbered in his heart. He sought to find it, unabatedly.</p><p class="western">His thoughts flew ahead.</p><p class="western">His dimmed figure, quenched by night shadows, was immobile, a statue sculpted from the stone. The only glimpse of light to be seen was the orange glow of the embers burning weed. He dozed off for he knew not how long.</p><p class="western">Suddenly, he woke. A noise of something that wasn’t the boughs swaying at the breeze diverted his thoughts. He half-opened his eyes, thinking for a moment the sound was a part of his visions and, looking around, he saw the night had deepened. He felt cold. A not very homely wind blew from the East, making the leaves talk. But a distinct rustle was still there. Subtle movements, slight footsteps on the grass.</p><p class="western">He carefully stood up, backed to the pine’s trunk, mingling their shadows into one. The moon illuminated more, now, as if a white fire had lit up all the layers of her thin veil. He unsheathed his sword, cautious, trying not to make any noise. The weapon hissed coldly, anxious for danger.</p><p class="western">He looked attentively to the other side of the road, where the sound had seemed to come from. He stood still for a while, watching. A clement breeze blew and brought him memories of his land in Spring. He felt, then, throbbing pain in his tired body, begging for rest. When he was about to lay down again, sleepy and less alarmed, he thought he heard the song of a nightingale. It must be dawning, he thought, ears raised as a hound. But it could not be. He looked at the sky and saw Ithil right above his head. He frowned, for it should be nearly past midnight.</p><p class="western">For a fraction of seconds, he thought he’d seen a flicker of light among the trees on the other side of the road. He rubbed his eyes stupefied, and, the moment he opened them again, there was another glint. No, it was not a vision. “That cannot be,” he whispered. Hypnotized, in his head, he heard the light calling his name. He decided to follow it, beguiled. He was still crossing the road when there was yet another flash as if it was showing him the way, and the nightingale commenced to sing. The light blinked slowly, and the nightingale sang in synchrony, increasing the tone and surging its voice.</p><p class="western">He made his way unthinkingly deep into the forest, following his ears and his eyes, toward that which lured him madly. The nightingale sang more limpidly as he approached the focus of light. The song pierced his tympanum, and he clung hard to the trees, bracing himself, feeling he might fall for he felt levitating. But despite the alienness of the feelings, his soul was peaceful, and his heart thrummed with incomprehensible joy. At last, he saw ahead of him the forest was bathed in colors that blended blue, purple, and white. His feet seemed to have grown a life of their own, driving him involuntarily until the opening of a clearing.</p><p class="western">He saw, then, all light came from the glade. It was almost blinding in the blackness of night. The nightingale’s song became melancholic and seemed to command all the movements of the forest for miles and miles. A line of trees stood between the clearing and the deep woods. He stopped behind an old willow, hiding from the alighted circle, still dazzled with the intensity of the light and with the sound that pervaded his brain. He couldn’t move. It took him a while until he could control his movements and get rid of the stupefying lightness. It was like his body had been seized by mug after mug of sweet wine, but without the bad aftertaste of alcohol.</p><p class="western">He had been walking for many long days. He had escaped alive of a trap to his people and began wandering through the mountains, crossing dark and dangerous places. He had stumbled upon that forest and entered seeking shelter, without really knowing what he would find. He had seen no sign of housings or of people. The forest seemed empty and abandoned. But, despite the darkness and the malign times, there was some good acting in this place. It was palpable. And that’s what he had decided to look for since he realized he was proscribed in stark lands. He rubbed his eyes while thought about it all, trying to get rid of the involuntary drunkness. He asked himself what kind of weed he had just smoked.</p><p class="western">When he looked inside the circle, however, his eyes widened, for there was a young maiden sitting on a small mound. She sparkled with the moonlight and seemed to reflect its shine. Fair, fair was she! At her feet grew little and delicate silver flowers that exhaled the sweet and wild fragrance he smelled across the road. Fairer than any other woman he had ever thought beholding. Her long, black hair fell over her white skin like night enclosing the stars. Her gown reflected also the white moonlight and shimmered with a purplish glow.</p><p class="western">A nightingale settled in her slender finger, and she smiled as she watched it sing joyfully. She then began her song, accompanying the melody of the little bird, and the harmony was hauntingly beautiful. Her voice was crystal clear, like water. Astounded, he couldn’t take his eyes off her and wished he could come close, but his body was paralyzed. The maiden and the nightingale sang along stronger, louder as if they were beckoning the inhabitants of the forest to harken to their words. The longer she sang, the more everything around him seemed more beautiful and bathed with many hues. He tried to understand what the words meant, but he was too overwhelmed and could only look upon her features and elegant movements. In the darkness of the night, she was the sun of the shades. He saw, then, the nightingale was as white as snow, and as if it followed the variation of melody, the moon shone even brighter, coloring the nightingale with the reflections of her gown, and the colors mingled.</p><p class="western">He stood for a while, watching dumbstruck. How was it possible to be so graceful? A divine aura, she had. When she smiled, he felt a grip seize his heart, and he thought he would go blind, for his eyes couldn’t stand such beauty. And her, oblivious to the observer, kept on singing merrily. Her voice echoed like music birthed from the depths of the earth. With a fluid, fast movement, she stood up and started dancing over the soft turf. The colors in her blue gown seemed to shift. Looking attentively, he saw it was made of a different, strange fabric. The creases and curves were like the ripple of flowing water. He thought of the sea. She was the waves on the beach he had seen in his dreams and visions. He heard water as if it was drizzling and looked up at the sky. But there was naught. The sky was as clear of clouds as before. Was that real or what his mind wanted him to believe?</p><p class="western">Her black hair fluttered with her delicate, agile steps as if she was made of wind and, with a blow, would be taken away. As her feet touched the ground, little beautiful silver flowers sprang up to greet her. The whole floor suddenly blossomed and reflected the stars, and the little nightingale sang all around her. He was enraptured. He wished that moment never ended, for he could be there until the end of his days. It would be the heavenly landscape that would gladden his heart, body, and soul at those moments his mind couldn’t bear solitude any longer. Then, he desired her.</p><p class="western">But still watched from afar, whilst she danced and colored everything around her. The boughs sighed their own joyful song; the moon shone above, and the nightingale enlightened and cleared the minds of those lost in the forest. All who were there would find their way, be it what it may. And that depended on their own hearts and intentions. As in a spell, he thought vaguely.</p><p class="western">And there he was, regarding for the first time the most beautiful of females the world had seen. He didn’t know how he had come closer to the maiden, and his thoughts smiled. She sang, as if calling his soul out, his heart to rest in the cup of her hands. Until they stopped facing each other. They gazed into one another’s eyes. Finally, he saw her face up close. Beautiful she was, like anything he’d ever seen! Her rosy cheeks flushed the moon-like white face. The grey eyes pulled him to its depths, and there was wisdom in them. He saw, there reflected, the glow of the first birthed stars. He smiled at these ideas and reached out a hand to touch her as if his vision had extended from his mind to his sight, and everything he’d ever dreamed of was right there, at a reaching grasp.</p><p class="western">She didn’t smile back, but her eyes sparkled, audacious and eager. And then, she ran. She turned her back and ran the opposite side of the forest as a tempestuous gazelle, carrying with her all light and beauty. “Nightingale!” he shouted, bewildered. And she was gone. Utter darkness fell upon his eyes, and they were blind. “Nightingale! Come back, come back!” he yelled in distress. But she didn’t return.</p><p class="western">He ran toward the side she might have gone. He couldn’t see anything in front of him, but he kept on running and waving his hands as if he wished to get rid of anything that interfered in his path. Stormy clouds covered the moon, and stars cowed with the looming shadows. Suddenly, he was frightened. Hot tears burned down his cheeks with the feeling he had lost something precious beyond all jewels in the world. His heart clenched in continuing pangs. His feet tripped on something and, before he realized, his mind went blank.</p><p class="western">His thoughts flew ahead of him.</p><p class="western">He re-opened his eyes, sleepily and heavy-headed. A beam of sunlight got straight into his face. Morning had come. He was in one of the borders, exactly on the opposite side he had been the night before. He stood up slowly, a sharp pain spread through his body, and he looked around. The maiden was indeed gone. He saw the stone that had made him stumble and lose his way. Far away, he saw his sword on the floor. He reminded how heavy and rudimentary she felt in the nearness of something so noble as the princess of flowers. He’d let it fall off his hand, and was completely unguarded.</p><p class="western">The stone in which the young maiden had sat was no longer surrounded by silver flowers. They had closed to Anar, making way for colorful buds just as pretty as the night-blooming ones. He knew, then, the latter would wait for the night and their muse to come again. He looked around and saw the turf was sprayed with all types of flowers in all colors imaginable. The sunbeams crept in subtly through green branches, illuminating those who pleaded for its light. The birds chirped merrily.</p><p class="western">He reminded the rare plumage of the little nightingale and searched in all the trees for its nestle, small eggs, or feathers. He looked for any clue they might have left. A trail made by the maiden’s delicate feet or feathers of her winged companion. Nothing. No trace at all. He thought of screaming for her again, but he now realized how foolish he had been by doing so. Someone could be easily drawn to where he was.</p><p class="western">He had spent too long in the open in unknown lands. He picked up his sword and stared down at the stone again, and it called to him. His thoughts still lingered on the vision of the maiden, and his heart jolted. “She must have been a princess to be so fair!” he murmured. He needed to find her again, whatever the cost. He blinked, and something at the back of his mind said he should hide. He ran a calloused hand over his sore muscles and imagined how many creatures must have lurked his careless sleep. He needed to get out of there. His entire body ached, but he felt strangely renewed somehow.</p><p class="western">He tried to think of what forest was this, and which path to thread. He wanted to find the young maiden again, but he something told him to avoid its inhabitants. To be there, exposed, wouldn’t help at all. He needed a place to stay. He had once heard a savage nomad tribe lived south of his home, where he thought he might now be, so it wouldn’t be difficult to find an abandoned hut in which he could shelter from unwanted looks.</p><p class="western">He moved slowly, thinking of all this when he heard the whizz of arrows and heavy feet stomping the ground without a care. Still far, but close enough. He wouldn’t be caught by surprise. As fast as a fox, sword unsheathed, he ran amongst the trees, peeking out the glade with his sharp weapon.</p><p class="western">He heard harsh, crude voices yelling, blaspheming. Silence. Then there were voices beautiful as the river answering the threat. The sound of metal on metal, arrows, screams of defiance, stumbles, and bodies hitting the floor. Soon the fight could be heard as close as the next bush, all around the forest in unison. The world had been at war for as long as he could remember, and he cursed his misfortune. This wasn’t the best moment to enter the fray, for he could be easily mistaken for a foe. So he grabbed the chance he had to go for unnoticed and unharmed and pushed the hood unto his nose. He unfurled the long brownish cloak that reached to his ankles and wrapped it around his shoulders. With that, he ran away from the battle. He didn’t know who the fighters were, for there was war even between kin. That was reason enough to slip out of there.</p><p class="western">He would need food, but also didn’t want to miss the trail of the young earthly star-maiden. He followed a hidden way on the woods, a couple of meters among the trees and not the skillfully made road, ears as alert as a hound’s. He walked for a very long time. The morning sun slowly sank West, warming the other side of the world and leaving these parts cold with its absence.</p><p class="western">He crouched from time to time to analyze the soil and listen to its voice, hoping to hear light steps over the grass. But there was nothing. He rose after his last try and looked up at the strip of indigo blue sky that shone in between the leaves. The sweet fragrance of the flowers benumbed his vision, and an incomprehensible heat burned underneath his clothes. Sweating and exhausted, he took it off, no longer caring if he was hidden or not. He could only think of the heat. The stuffy air suffocated and slowed his thoughts, and he felt his limbs soften, his heart beating slower. “Lay down a little... Will do no harm,” he said out loud as you would tell someone rest is necessary. He leaned on the roots of a great tree he had never seen before.</p><p class="western">It wasn’t normal. He was used to sleeping a little or almost nothing, and couldn’t understand why the unexpected mental tiredness. He floundered in a duel with himself, in which sleeping seemed the most reasonable, but his heart screamed he should get out of there quickly. But he couldn’t move. At last, he gave up. Tiredness won the duel, and he drifted off, lulled by the sweet song of the boughs and branches above him.</p><p class="western">When he managed to open his eyes again, dusk engulfed him. He felt no longer tired. On the contrary. His heart throbbed as if it was going to jump out of his mouth. His movements were erratic, though, and he struggled to dominate his own body and make his legs obey him once again. He stood up. Fresh, cold water, that’s what he needed. Maybe there was a nearby brook, and to look for it seemed reasonable. His sight was gradually getting used to the dimmed light of dusk, and his mind seemed less confused. He leaned heavily against the tree and breathed with great effort.</p><p class="western">When he was about to follow his own path again, he thought he heard the peep of a nightingale. He stopped, and his heart leaped in delight. He didn’t hesitate. It could only be the princess maiden! Nightingales didn’t sing at dusk, they only mourned the passage of Tilion and saluted Arien! He ran irrationally inside the forest once more, following the song and the flashes of light like the night before. He felt much more lucid and no longer cared for the many eyes that pried on him. So he ran and laughed as he did, his chest bursting with happiness as if he was ready to enter the doors of the Blessed Realm.</p><p class="western">Until he was forced to stop. The light was so blinding it hurt his eyes. He blinked several times until his eyes got used to seeing again. He recognized, then, a foothill covered in rich, luscious green. The hill was cut as if some playful god had splintered it in half with a knife. Through the cleft, a river of limpid waters ran swiftly and ended in a lovely waterfall, its white foam licked the rocks below. At its bottom, a diaphanous pool sprawled lazily, bathing all life around the bank. The many plants seemed to bow and bend to the gracefulness of the landscape, and he was immediately enspelled. It looked like nothing he’d ever seen, and it was a blessing to his eyes. The freshwater kissed his face lightly, and he smiled. But there was no sign of the maiden. He felt it in his bones she was close but didn’t know where. So he decided to climb down the concavity to clean his face and hands.</p><p class="western">He fell to his knees and slowly washed. The water soothed him, and he drank several times. When he gazed up to the reflection of the moon on the surface, he saw also the image of the maiden. She watched him and smiled. His surprise was even greater when he realized how close she was and that he hadn’t felt her approach. He turned around quickly and stood up. The fair maiden was there, waiting for him to notice her. She smiled again, broadly this time, as if she saw a different man, different from the one she’d seen the previous night. She also seemed different in his eyes. She was closer and much more real, although still beautiful beyond words. But in her eyes, it shimmered the same audacity and cheerfulness of before. She was earthly, and at the same time, fey. A goddess within his touch.</p><p class="western">But then, he lowered his head, ashamed of his behavior. How frightened she must have been of him! He heard a peel of laughter, as joyous as the dawn, and took his hand in hers. He felt the delicate skin and shivered with the warmth. It was homely. Their eyes finally met, and both were shocked by the many things they learned from one another.</p><p class="western">Holding hands in front of the waterfall, two proud, ethereal figures. If someone saw them, they would say it was merely spirits of the forest, two lovers meeting after centuries of waiting. The stars glowed to receive them, a new moon was born to see the encounter, the nightingale sang, the little silver flowers bloomed at their feet, the same sweet and wild scent, poignant and comforting. A subtle and tenuous light surrounded the two figures, untouchable as the stars that twinkled brightly above them. At that time, they were indeed unreachable. Finally, he grinned. The long hour before the dawn had come; there, in the middle of that foreign forest, they loved one another.</p><p class="western">
  <em>From there, a new story begins. The later deeds belong to another tale and are not mine to tell.</em>
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